


La vita é bella

by Noc (SwipingMonocles)



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwipingMonocles/pseuds/Noc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps it isn't such a good idea to read Poe in the afternoon. (Private-school AU)<br/>(No, really, this is massively AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	La vita é bella

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably mention that this is in Frank's (first-person) point of view.

_“Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of the earth is multiform.” (Poe, Berenice, 1835)_

 

I sighed wistfully, moodily watching the raindrops race down the polished ashen marble of the outside statues. The day had started off seemingly perfectly when I awoke to a vibrant sunrise and the smell of a well-cooked breakfast gently floated into the room. My good mood quickly dissipated however, the once-bright day taking a turn for the worse when I discovered that my book had, without warning, been soaked by the torrential downpour of fat water droplets. For most of the day, I had somehow managed to struggle though various obstacles that had seemingly been thrown haphazardly in my direction by a cruelly humoured fate. I was simply relieved to have been able to go home and rest, conversing with you about various subjects (you with your vivid, colourful art and me my sophisticated black-on-white books). Deciding to get a bit of reading done before the moon began its ascent in the tenebrous sky, I made my way to the library, selecting a small collection of my favourite books. Making myself comfortable, I perched on top of a particularly large stack of objects placing a well-worn book in front of me, began to read, and time for me slowed to a halt while beyond my world I had not noticed the darkened sky. The words scrawled upon the page in once flowing calligraphy began to blur and morph. I could not keep my eyes open and slowly succumbed to sleep.

I was suddenly sitting in an unfamiliar place, a corridor, filled with a stygian blackness, the sound of a beating heart accompanying my broken thoughts. A haunting melody played at the back of my mind as I rose to a standing position, the tiled floor felt as ice against my bare feet. Whispered words, fragments of passing phrases swirled wildly through my mind; tearing, clutching with raven’s talons. As I tediously made my way forward, toward a pair of dark oak doors, I could feel their eyes upon me- judging, stripping away at me until I was nothing more than blood and dust. And the laughter; the laughter taunted me day and night, its cold tone tinctured with an almost unbearable dark, making me feel as though I were fading into obscurity. As it is, though, I know that I’ve moved beyond that breaking point, that I have already crossed the threshold into a world void of rational thought and planned movement. I have become nothingness, lost within the ruins of my own mind. Yellowing pages and flowing words one of my few solaces aside from the (not-so-clever) rule-breaking of the art of my own, my permanent skin decor.

As my thirst for those sweet words of life became unquenchable, as my struggle for academic prime rose to almost unreachable heights, I became lost within the text and pages, abandoning our dreams of a band that would reach brilliant heights. Pansy dutifully sat in a corner, neglected, and a thin layer of dust gently coated her pristine body. You tried to save me, to distract me from the nothing, but it would not work. Even as they are coming for me, I sense my impending downfall, my journey to that dark abyss where nothingness rules over all forms, crystalline, rid of scarred memories. And I accept- I welcome the peace of mind with open arms.

My heart is a crevasse, emotions swinging like uncertain pendulums. I smile as the world seems to crush together; implode, moving in upon itself. The confusion slices through my clouded mind, tearing at words and poems I seem to have once known. I hear myself, singing, whispering my last words and everything has stopped, paused to listen and it seems as though earth herself listens as well.

 _“As I paint sweet poison on the wings of butterflies,  
They smile softly- dissipating into grey skies.  
As hay bale snails float across the endless fields,  
They laugh softly- slowly blending into the achromatic landscape.  
As ebony ravens cry my name,  
I whisper softly- ‘La vita é bella’.”_

I have remembered that lullaby you would sing to me when we were young, when I was too afraid to comply with the Sandman’s wishes; I was simply unable to enter the black abyss which I feared would hold me forever. You would croon to me this haunting song until I was no longer afraid, until sleep seemed less of a thing to be feared. And I remember, now, what happened so long ago.

I am falling and I can’t seem to open my heavy-lidded eyes although I hear you speaking softly to me. I feel a warmth and as I awake, a brightness and your face invade my vision. You say something I can barely make out; you want to know why I’m still here and how in the world I’ve managed to fall off that ridiculous mountain of literature. I mumble something about pendulums, nightmares and tests. You make some sort of understanding, knowing noise and gently pull me to my feet, slowly leading me to our shared chambers; to soft bedding. This time, I dream of summer- a warm breeze, the soft lull of sapphire water, rolling emerald grass upon purple and white-tipped mountains and the sun glinting off of your oddly-coloured crimson hair, your shining hazel eyes when you laugh as I fumble over the complex Italian words that seem to flow so smooth from your native tongue and we are walking along the rocky shoreline because, of course, it isn’t a proper beach with sand because those kind don’t remind you of home and I can deal with that because it’s okay, because it’s _human_. As I fall into a more peaceful slumber, a last thought slips between the threads of my subconscious.

Perhaps it isn’t such a good idea to read Poe in the afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> Gerard speaks Italian, there is no conversation whatsoever and Frankie is obsessed with academics/literature/what-have-you. That's about the gist of things.


End file.
